


one step backward, two steps forward

by YukinaMika



Series: 2020 [24]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26299654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YukinaMika/pseuds/YukinaMika
Summary: Marinette moves to Gotham and opens a patisserie.
Relationships: Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug/Jason Todd
Series: 2020 [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593016
Comments: 88
Kudos: 593





	1. Chapter 1

Marinette never thought she would be opening a patisserie and neither did she think she would actually move to Gotham but here she is.

This city is a place where the sun does not shine and the streets are always dark despite the barely working streetlights. It is infamously known as the Crime Capital – the place where criminals run wild and the people live in a state of constant alert.

No one thinks of her moving as a good thing. Her parents explicitly express their worries and disapproval about her life changing decision. Her friends, Alya especially, think of it as suicidal.

But Tikki, sweet and kind Tikki, nods and supports her.

“Gotham is unstable,” the kwamii murmurs quiet as she packs up, “Everything there has always been a struggle, which is why those magical in nature flock over there.”

According to Tikki, the city is a battleground between creation and destruction, between fortune and cataclysm. It is, in so many words, chaotic and perfect for magic to thrive.

“There has always been a balance,” Tikki mutters quietly in her coat pocket as they board their flight, “But since the last few decades, the scales have been tipping.”

“Creation and fortune are struggling to survive,” Plagg adds, “Destruction and cataclysm are running wild there.”

Coming from the kwamii of misfortune, that is certainly distressing.

“I know that a Guardian’s job is to maintain balance,” she whispers, “However, I don’t know what to do to help. Gotham City is big and there is only me.”

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Tikki assures her, poking her head out from the pocket, “Even a tiny pebble can cause a ripple and even a butterfly can cause a storm.”

“Only if that butterfly is at the right time and space,” is her reply.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Plagg purrs like the spoiled cat that he is, “You are exactly where you are meant to be.”

* * *

The patisserie stands on the edge of Crime Alley - a bright spot amidst the darkness, a lighthouse in the night. It is pastel in colors. It is cheery, it is bright, it is everything that Crime Alley is not.

And business is not going well.

“I told you this place is not suitable for business of any kind,” Kaalki hisses the moment the last customer leaves, “Situated in the one place that is crawling with more criminals than any place else in the god forsaken capital of crime! What were you thinking, Guardian?”

“Yes, yes, I know,” she has heard this song time after time, really, “Sales aren’t going very well because the location is bad. I know.”

It is not as if she has much money for some place better. She is basically working two jobs with the patisserie and designing on the side. It is always opening, running the patisserie, closing down, preparing for the next day, working on her commissions and turning in. And by the time she is in bed, midnight has long passed.

Yeah. Bad habits. Working too hard. Things that Tikki used to rag her on in the old days.

Now, however, it is not Tikki. No, Tikki now sits back as the other kwamii nag her about getting enough sleep and eating enough food and drinking enough water.

“Guardian,” Wayzz buzzes, “Perhaps a cup of tea would serve you well.”

“Hydrate or die-drate,” Xuppu chirps, “You can’t run away from me.”

“I have taken it upon myself to draw you a bath,” Longg announces, looking really satisfied with himself, “I believe a hot bath will loosen your muscles and lighten your mood.”

They do not have a bath. What they have is a shower because that is more affordable than a bath tub.

And they do not have hot water. Usually, she would have to boil water if she wanted a hot bath.

“Longg, did you use your fire?”

That is the important question as she strides toward the bathroom.

Without the Miraculi to limit their powers, the kwamii can just run wild and Marinette once saw what Plagg did without a wielder. She does not want her bathroom to be burned down because Longg cannot control himself.

“I am insulted that you would, for one second, think that I would be that careless,” the little dragon hisses as he floats after her, “I am perfectly capable of drawing you a bath and heating up the water.”

Oh god, the bathroom is still fine. Except the bucket is filled with water and there is smoke? Wait, is that steam?

“I see,” is her answer as she stares at the bucket of still steaming hot water, “Thank you very much, Longg.”

The dragon preens. She pretends not see Xuppu’s sour face or Wayzz’s frown.

Sometimes, she thinks, the kwamii are using her in one of their posturing things. Like a competition on who can take better care of the Guardian or something like that.

She wonders if they had ever pulled such a thing with Master Fu.

Oh right. She should check up on him and Marianne soon. It’s near that time again.

* * *

_Master Fu is fine. Marianne is fine. They are both happily in love as they have been years ago._

_It seems like everyone is doing better than her. Maybe moving to Gotham is not really the smartest move._

_“I do not know, my dear,” Marianne tells her through the screen, aged yet still bright-eyed with love, “Perhaps it is a right move. Perhaps it is not.”_

_“So you don’t have any advice for me?”_

_Marianne smiles, all kindly and softly like Marinette is her beloved granddaughter rather than the student of her lover._

_“Hope always burns the brightest in the darkest night and it is love that encourages changes and drives the world forward.”_

* * *

Kindness breeds more kindness just as cruelty breeds more cruelty. And Gotham, she thinks, has seen more than enough atrocities that it ever should.

“Hello, mister,” she chirps when the familiar figure of the man who lives just a bit down the road catches her eyes, “How is the missus?”

“She’ll live,” is the dry answer as the man makes his way to where the muffins are displayed, “Scarecrow’s fear gas is real nasty but building an immunity isn’t impossible, lassie.”

She snorts a quiet laugh as she waits for the receipt to be printed.

The man’s wife was caught in the latest Scarecrow attack just a few days ago. From what Marinette has gleaned, the batch of fear gas used in the attack was an old one. It is the basic kind that almost every hospital and clinic has an antidote for.

And apparently, if you live in Gotham long enough, you would build up an immunity against the common shits that the costumed villains use. Most prominently, fear gas resistance is a real thing.

“Send my regards to the missus, please,” she smiles and hands the receipt to him, “Also, we’re having a fifty percent discount for bread starting next week.”

They do not but no one needs to know that.

It is about that time of the year; she has heard the kids whispered. The time where Arkham Asylum once again fails its function and the psychopaths run wild on Gotham’s streets.

Chaos is coming and things are going to happen and people will be losing their jobs left and right. And those who suffer the most would be the people of Crime Alley.

Discrimination is a thing and those from Crime Alley, she has found out, are looked down upon by even fellow Gothamites. They are the most likely to lose their job after an attack by rogues.

“Too many discounts aren’t really good for your business,” the man rumbles as he leafs through the papers, “And you’re giving away too many coupons.”

“It’s fine, mister,” she smiles in a way she hopes is reassuring, “Business is really good nowadays. A few discounts and coupons won’t make a big impact.”

“People like you usually don’t last in Crime Alley,” says the man, “Take care, lassie.”

* * *

_She strikes gold with her designing._

_Having Jagged Stone as customer is great coverage but it is better when more celebrities decide to give an up and coming artist a chance. Commissions are flying into her inbox more than she can think of._

_“See?” Fluff crows triumphantly, “I told you it would be fine. Just trust the kwamii of time, Guardian.”_

* * *

Ever since M.D.C takes off, she finally has enough spare money to hire help around the patisserie. It, in return, leaves her with more free time to work on the commissions.

“You don’t have to stay in Gotham,” Luka texts her, “You can move to somewhere better, more secure.”

She leaves him on read and continues on sketching the next costumes for Kitty Section.

“I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” are the words in the document attached to the designs sent over for finalization.

Because she is. She has built herself a life here and she would not be leaving anytime soon.

Her resolve only grows when she finds a little kid with their hand in the cashier at midnight when she is heading to the kitchen for a cup of milk.

“It’s fine,” she tells the pale-faced kid, “Just take it and leave. Remember to close the door on your way out.”

“You’re not calling the cops?” is the suspicious question as the little kid pockets the money, “Are you crazy?”

“Everyone is a bit crazy, kid,” she replies dryly, leaning against the handrail, “Especially those who move to Gotham to open this.”

The kid makes a face that is weirdly endearing. It makes her think of the times when she babysat Manon. Except the little one is tinier and dressed more raggedly than Maron ever did.

“Tell you what,” she begins and can tell that the kid tenses up in preparing for whatever to come, “I’m going to make you an offer.”

“Fuck no, I’m no hooker,” the kid snarls, eyes bright and blazing, body defensive and a hand protectively over the pocket where the money is, “I’m not that desperate for cash.”

She kind of wants to hurl. Or maybe she wants to hit someone.

“Relax, kid,” she holds up her hands, “I just want to offer you some food in exchange of a favor or two.”

“I’m not running drugs for you and neither am I going to do you any favors.”

“What if I tell you I would feed you for free?” she asks because really, she has things to return to and she bets the kid wishes to be here less than her, “And in exchange, you give me feedback on my baking?”

By the end of the week, she has five kids in the patisserie after closing hour, snacking on her new creations as she jolts down their comments on the newest batch of baked goods.

* * *

The coming and going of the kids soon become a regular thing and Marinette leaves her door open with the food ready and a notebook in case anyone might want to leave a comment or a request while she sits at the cashier and sketches.

“Marinette,” a little girl calls her name as she drags a stool over to her and climbs up to sit face to face with her, “The donut is really good.”

“Yes, thank you,” she looks up from her sketchbook and blinks when she realizes that this is one for the shyer kids, “Which would you prefer more? Chocolate or strawberry?”

“Anything is fine. As long as it’s food.”

“Then I’ll make both chocolate and strawberry donuts for you, okay?”

The little girl beams and hops off the stool to join the other kids.

“You never wonder why they always come to you but never use the notebook?” Sass murmurs quietly on her laps, hidden away from curious stares, “One would think such a shy girl would rather use the notebook than coming to you.”

“I don’t mind,” she whispers back, “Anything that makes them happy is good enough for me.”

Sass sighs and curls up in her laps for a nap.

It is only when she is about to fall asleep that she realizes why Sass brought that to her attention.

“They might not know how to write,” is what she breaths out when she pulls herself toward her desk, “Why didn’t I think of this earlier?”

“Are you going to change your profession?” Trixx yawns on top of her head, “Going to be a tutor?”

“My English is just barely enough for me to live, Trixx. I can’t teach them English.”

“Then teach the other things,” is the sleepy reply, “Cooking is good. And so is sewing. Important works…”

Trixx falls asleep as she rolls his words around in her head.

* * *

Another day, another kidnapping.

This has been happening since the kids start coming in after closing hours. She never understands why those things would be connected but honestly, she does not really want to.

Apparently, the mobs think she is an up and coming mob boss or a new player in the drug trade and that she is trying to recruit the kids to be her henchmen.

But honestly, the whole kidnapping thing is just annoying and disrupting. Sure, it is dangerous but she can get herself out and has done so times and times again. Why do they even try?

This is probably an attempt from some no name gang that she really does not know of. At least this time they put more effort in buying over her assistant to help with their kidnapping.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, miss Dupain-Cheng,” rumbles her host as she is forced to sit down in a chair and the sack over her head is lifted, “I have heard much about you.”

Well, fuck.

The man in front of her is a mob boss infamous enough that even one who is blinded when it comes to the forces at play in Gotham’s underworld like her knows she is in deep shit.

“I am honored, Mr. Sionsis,” she quips because it is a habit to snark and banter just to stall for some time, “Though I hope what you heard are all good things.”

Black Mask is not one easily crossed. She has heard of the man’s ruthlessness and those stories are not pretty.

The mask seems to grin back at her and she has to bite back a tiny whimper as shivers run down her spines.

Could this get any worse?

A sudden gun fire answers her thought. And apparently, it can get worse because Red Hood bursts in through the window, gun trained on Black Mask.

Violence erupts and Marinette throws herself to the ground and rolls under the desk. Trixx hisses uncomfortably in her coat pocket.

“Let’s get out of here,” she murmurs, “Trixx, let’s pounce.”

Under the cloak of Mirage, she lets herself out while the mob bosses are locked in combat.

* * *

_“You’re back,” her assistant squeaks when she walks through the front door._

_“Yes, and you are fired.”_

* * *

The new help is called Jay. His C.V is very impressive. Apparently, he knows several languages, lives in the Bowery and is currently in college majoring in English Literature and Social Studies.

“I have always wanted to know how to bake,” he says as they are cleaning up, “Figures that working in a bakery would be a good start.”

Sure, he is a bit socially awkward but he is kind to the kids and even sticks around to help her with them.

“I used to be one of them,” he confesses one day before they open, “Always wanted to do something to makes their lives better,”

The kwamii, however, do not seem to share her enthusiasm.

“There is something weird about him,” Nooroo murmurs from the other side of the door, “His aura is… unbalanced. Twisted.”

“It must be because he has been living here for so long,” she hums and reaches for the shampoo, “You know how it is.”

Living too long in a place and your mannerism changes. And Gotham sharpens its citizens. Everyone who claims a place in this city is much warier and untrusting.

“It’s not only that,” Plagg’s voice sounds from outside, “I swear, he can see us.”

“Plagg, you know normal people can see you. Kwamii only do not appear on videos and pictures.”

Honestly, they are worrying too much.

* * *

The kwamii are right to be worried.

The address that Jay notes as his home is empty when she arrives, a basket of baked good in her arms. The house is old and has nothing but the necessities.

There is not even a sign of anyone entering the place with the thick layer of dusk on the front porch.

“Marinette,” Tikki whispers from her pocket, “What are we going to do?”


	2. Chapter 2

Jay does not turn in even when the clock strikes eleven in the morning.

It is a Saturday and as far as she knows, he is usually late on Saturdays, citing that Friday is the busiest day at college. Marinette has told him time and time again that no, if he was too tired then he could choose to take Saturday off.

It is not like she would decrease his pay. His night work is not a requirement yet he does it anyway and paying him in bread for the free teaching he provides is underpaying.

Jay could take Saturdays off and his salary would not be decreased for even a cent.

“I’m a little bit worried,” she murmurs to Pollen as they have their dinner, Pollen hidden behind the counter, “Eleven is a new record and Jay always calls ahead if he takes a leave.”

“Certainly, this is quite concerning,” buzzes the little bee, “That gentleman is punctual to his bones and as hardworking as a bee. I do not believe that it is his wish to be absent without any forewarning.”

“Do you think we should pay him a visit?” Marinette asks, “Just in case if he’s sick?”

Jay does not talk much about his home life but he did let it slip once that he lives alone. And getting sick while living alone is hellish. Marinette has experiences in that area and while the kwamii were there, things were still hard and frustrating.

“Is that wise, Guardian?” Pollen tilts her head to the side, “Your thought is very kind but is it customary to visit stricken employees?”

Well, not usually but there are only them two. This business is not big and beside her, Jay is the only other worker. Co-worker solidarity, perhaps.

And well, she does have a soft spot for Jay. Anyone who treats the kids with kindness is an okay person in her book and Jay really goes out of his way to make sure the kids are taken care of.

He does not need to be there when the kids come but he sticks around and makes friends with them. He fills in the gaps where Marinette’s English fails her and leaves her disconnected from the little kids. He tells them little tips, on where to scavenge for food in emergencies when they could not make it to the patisserie, on where to get cheap daily supplies, on the shortcuts all over the Narrows and Bowery.

They are not friends, per se with Marinette as his boss and him being in her employ but a little bit of kindness never hurts anyone.

“We’ll close in the evening and check in on him then.”

* * *

_The kwamii are shaken by the revelation. Marinette is shaken, too._

_“Perhaps it is fortunate that we found out so soon,” Roaar grumbles, dark storm clouds on her face, “With this knowledge, we wouldn’t be surprised when his inevitable betrayal comes.”_

_“Perhaps there’s an explanation for this,” is her suggestion as Tikki cuddles into the crook of her neck, “A reason for all of this?”_

_“Yes, there is,” snaps Stompp, “Like that woman who sold you out and let some thugs kidnap you when she invited you over.”_

_“Guardian, you are kind,” Barkk says, floating in front of her, “However, you have to understand that the proofs are against this Jay.”_

_Whatever she is about to say is drowned out by Dusuu’s thin wailing._

_“We’re doom,” cries the peacock, “Tragedies abound!”_

* * *

There is no action taken about Jay or the false address on his C.V.

The kwamii suggested many things ranging from firing to wiping his memories with a potion or even the truth serum that Wayzz claimed to remember how to brew. Marinette refuted all of them because, first of all, Jay has done no harm thus there is no reason to fire him.

“He lied to you!” thundered Barkk, “To us!”

To which, Marinette replied, “This is Gotham, Barkk. People here aren’t really forthcoming with their personal information.”

Second of all, wiping his memories might be a tad too much. Same goes for interrogating him with a truth serum.

And last but not least, and this is the most important one, good help is hard to fine. Especially when you run a patisserie near Crime Alley.

“You are biased, Guardian,” Orikko informed her, “You likes him. You do not wish to know that he can betray you.”

Ouch.

Okay but so what if she favors Jay more than the other helps? Jay is good with the kids and that’s not saying that the others were not. Okay, the person before Jay was not but anyway, Jay just sort of, gets the little ones.

The others can sympathize with them. Marinette can sympathize with them. Jay, however, used to be one of them. He knows more than they do about living on the streets and struggling to survive.

As much as Marinette wants to help, she cannot do anything more than the charities she does as M.D.C. That is not taking into account that most of the organizations based in Gotham are corrupted.

Heck, everything in Gotham is corrupted and politics is not her strong point. The next best thing she can do is make sure that the kids actually have food to eat.

Campaigning for changes is necessary but she needs to bid her time and build herself something to fall back into. Let her career as M.D.C grow until her voice is loud enough to demand changes.

And Jay is, if she is not mistaken, an ally. One who knows what he is talking about. One who has found a way to move forward and wants the same for those like him. One who wants changes.

She wants to trust him but it is quite hard when the seed of doubt is already planted.

* * *

_Jay shows up three days after her visit, a bruise on one side of his face and acts like nothing has happened._

_“Are you okay?” is her tentative question when he comes in, “Do you need help?”_

_Jay laughs and brushes her off with an “I’m fine,” and she can see the way he limbs to the counter._

_“I don’t think he is fine,” she whispers to Daizii as she kneads, “He doesn’t look fine!”_

_“I think you should take Plagg’s theory into account,” says Daizii as she kneads her own little ball of flour, “Maybe Jay is being forced to work for some gang.”_

_The kwamii all have theories about why Jay would put the address of an abandoned house on his C.V. Some think that he is a member of some gangs that want something with Marinette. Some, like Plagg, think he is an unwilling player in whatever this is._

_“There’s no proof that he’s working for any gangs,” she hisses, “It could be a mugging gone wrong or an accident with the stairs?”_

_She knows she is grasping at straws when even Daizii looks at her with pity._

* * *

Jay does not stick around that night. This is the first time he does not.

“I told a friend I would accompany them to their appointment,” he says, tugging on his jacket and not meeting her eyes, “Wouldn’t want them to face the doc alone.”

It feels wrong because everything is weird. His words seem earnest enough but he looks a little bit too relax.

One of the lessons Marinette learned in her early days in Gotham is that those who live in Gotham is always on the edge. They are slow to trust others and are always looking behind their back.

Jay is friendly enough but he is always on guard. Marinette has seen him assessing the front door and the back door on the first day. And she is pretty sure that he has a pocket knife on him twenty-four seven.

She has seen the knife. Once or twice when they are loading things and need some tapes cut.

For Jay to suddenly look relax while talking to her, it is almost like he is trying to play it down. Like he is trying to appear as non-threatening.

But what he does in his free time is none of her problem. And it is not a requirement to stay behind nor is it mandatory for the hired help to teach the kids anything.

“Where is Jay?” the littlest boy asks when they realize a familiar face is lacking, “Is he sick?”

“He’s not sick,” is what Marinette replies as she peers over a crooked line of stitches, “He’s busy.”

“I heard from Helen that he showed up with a bruise today,” one of the older boys says, “Said he had trouble walking too.”

“I didn’t see the Fosters today,” she frowns, “Are you sure?”

Helen is the older of the Foster sisters living a few streets away from the patisserie. She is going to college next year, according to her little sister. They are both delights who have spent the night in the patisserie more than once.

They still have a parent but most of their time are spent outside of the house seeing as their mother brings clients back to their home. No child need to bear witness to such things.

Usually, their mother would stop by the patisserie for bread and either Helen or her younger sister would accompany her. Today, however, none of the Fosters stopped by.

Actually, no one has seen Eri, the little sister, for nearly a week. Helen said she was sick the last time her mother and her stopped by the patisserie, which was four days ago.

It is a bit concerning. Maybe some sweets might help with the girl’s recovery.

“Uh huh,” the boy nods, “She was with her ma to meet some guys, I think. Said she saw him in East End this morning.”

True, East End and the Bowery are close and walking on foot from East End to the Bowery is possible. Jay, however, was limping this morning.

“He always walks to the patisserie,” she says carefully and watches as the boy frowns, “That must have hurt.”

“I can’t believe you let him work in that condition,” one of the girls sneers, “If I were you, I would have kicked him out and told him to have the fucking day off.”

That thought did cross her mind. At least it did until she remembered how stubborn Jay is.

“I don’t think you can win against him,” she replies dryly, “Remember when he came in with the flu?”

Oh yes. Marinette would not forget that soon.

Apparently, Jay did not take the day off and came in with a fever and a mask because capitalism has somehow conditioned employees to not call in sick because they might get in troubles with their boss. Like decreased salary or being fired, you know, those kind of troubles.

Marinette shut the patisserie down and made him soup because she is not a monster who makes their employees work while they are sick. Also, it is bad for the business if the flu is spread to the customers.

The moral of the story is that Jay is stubborn to the point of recklessly endangering his health. Not that Marinette has the higher moral ground, according to the kwamii but no one needs to know that.

“Fuck, you’re right,” says the girl, “That time’s real nasty.”

“Believe me, I know.”

“On the bright side,” chirps the kid who starts all of this, “You two suit each other with your recklessly endangering your health.”

“Hell no,” she grounds out, “We don’t, as you said, ‘suit each other’.”

“That’s a fucking lie and you know it.”

* * *

_Even after she tucked the kids into the sleeping bags that she made for them and stashed in the storage, she still cannot get the thought of Jay and whatever is happening with him out of her head._

_“This feels like another Adrien,” Tikki says from her bed, “Are you pining, Marinette?”_

_Marinette makes a frustrated sound and plops down face first into her sketchbook._

_“It’s not pining, sugar cube,” Plagg huffs, “Our Guardian is really kind so she worries for a guy who would be potentially involved in her future kidnapping.”_

_“I haven’t been kidnapped since the last one,” she mumbles, “You know, the one where Red Hood burst in and started a gun fight when my hands were tied behind my back?”_

_“Oh yes,” Trixx crows, “You owed me for that.”_

_“Yes, Trixx. I know.”_

* * *

Ok, now looking back, maybe she should have known something is strange.

Like she told the kwamii, it has been some time since her last kidnapping. Three entire months have passed and nothing happened. Not even a failed attempt.

Should she be worried? Or did the kidnappings evolve into assassination attempts and said assassins are waiting for her to slip up?

“It’s weird,” she mumbles as she waits for the oven to heat up, “It has been three months.”

“Three months?” Jay hums from the counter, “Do you always keep track of how long your employees work for you?”

She jumps and blinks at that.

“No, I don’t,” comes the immediate answer because she really does not, “Just remembering things.”

“Then what happened three months ago? Struck some gold or something?”

God, do people really think she is a mob boss or something? Because this? Is so not the first time someone thought she struck gold with drugs or some trafficking stuffs.

“If you mean striking gold as in hiring you, then yes,” she drawls and loads the tray into the oven, “But anyway, that’s not what I’m thinking.”

“Oh?”

“Just, it has been three months,” she sets the temperature and leans back on the table, “That’s quite a long respite from the kidnappings.”

“Ah, yes,” Jay’s voice is a touch gleeful, “Madam Dupain-Cheng, the Untouchable.”

“Are-,“ Oh god, please don’t be real, “Do people actually call me that?”

“Well, you do have your own reputation on the streets,” says Jay and Marinette does not know if she wants to bury herself in sand and never come up or find out the root of that creed and destroy it, “They said you escaped every kidnapping. Some, you even foiled before they happened. Honestly, how did you do that?”

Well, having kwamii on your side helps but there is no way she can tell him that. Actually, she cannot think of any way to escape unscathed if she does not have her kwamii.

“They probably gave up,” she tries instead of explaining how she escaped, “I was just lucky, I guess.”

“That’s some insane luck, boss.”

Jay does not sound like he believes her. Which is kind of fair because Marinette does not know if she trusts everything he says right now.

This is exhausting.

* * *

_The kids are agitated tonight. It is almost like something is brewing._

_“Are you two okay?” Blaine, the kid who snuck in and stole her money, asks quietly when Jay is busy showing the younger ones how to do back stitches, “Because it looks you two just had a spat.”_

_Marinette thinks back about Jay and how distant he feels even when they still talk to each other. She thinks about the abandoned home and the bruise and the limping that is still pretty prominent. She thinks about how Jay brushes away her concerns about his health._

_“We did not have a spat or argue,” she says at last, “Things just feel weird.”_

_The kid does not believe her with the way he rolls his eyes heavenward._

_Like he is asking for patience. Or strength. Heck if she knows._

_Marinette, however, knows what she would ask for. She would ask for answers: about Jay, about his motives, about his intentions, about whether or not he would sell her out like the last hired help._

_She would sleep easier at night if she knows the answer to half of those._

* * *

The kwamii are worried. The kids are worried. Even the regulars are worried.

“Are things alright?” asks the woman who always stops by every three days for macarons, “Between you and that boy?”

Everyone is concerned about them and Marinette is so, so tired.

“Perhaps you should take a day off,” Wayzz suggests from inside her pocket, “All of this stress isn’t doing you any good.”

Marinette never thinks she would be taken care of by the flock of floating little deities but here they are. She actually thought she would be the one doing the taking care and not the other way around but it seemed like she underestimated the kwamii’s fussing.

“I don’t know, Wayzz,” she says, keeping her voice low in case anyone, especially Jay, is eavesdropping, “I just want all of this to be over.”

“It can be fix easily,” hums the little turtle, flappers flapping serenely, “With a little help from what I would call ‘truth serum’, of course.”

God, whoever thought Wayzz would be the calm, responsible one really should think again. He takes as much joy in chaos as the others and is always ready for mischief but of course, he generates such a straight and narrow vibe that everyone falls for it.

“Vetoed,” is her vehement answer as she brings out the tray of petit fours she prepared for the kids, “Truth serum is so out of the question it is not even on the table for discussion.”

Just as she turns around, she finds Jay leaning at the entrance of the kitchen, the patisserie is blessedly devoid of anyone except them. Which is some kind of small relief because with the way Jay is eyeing her, she suspects he heard the whispered conversation.

“So,” Jay seems relax, like he is talking about the weather but the undercurrent of his voice screams of danger, “Is there anything you would like to share with the class?”

It is times like that Marinette is reminded that Jay is, at the end of the day, physically bigger than her. So what if he is kind to the kids, Jay still kicks the creeps who harass her out if they so much as breath wrongly at her direction.

The uncomfortable flirting and the cat-calling stop but that is only because of the threat of bruised faces and swollen eyes.

It is quite a shock to her system because she is used to seeing Jay as an ally: someone she can trust, someone she can, somewhat, equates to safety. To see him eyeing her with something akin to caution, all bunched up and ready like a cat ready to pounce on a mouse is just… strangely terrifying.

But Marinette, well, she did not send her teenaged years moonlighting without the knowledge of her parents just to be flustered by someone catching her talking to a kwamii.

“Oh yes,” she smiles and hopes it is believable as she spins her tale, “Do you know about rubber duck debugging? Well, talking to stuffed animals really helps with designing sometimes.”

The kwamii hate being called toys. There, however, are no other explanation for her penchant for talking to them that can pass as believable to others.

“Yes, I understand the need for more inspiration,” is Jay’s smooth reply but somehow, his tone lowers and Marinette has to suppress a shiver at the way his eyes stay locked on her, “It is quite expected seeing as M.D.C’s name is surely spreading in the fashion world.”

Ah, that is… a little bit worrying. She, after all, does not advertise her other career and there is nothing that links Marinette Dupain-Cheng to M.D.C.

The tray in her hands shake as she takes half a step backward when Jay strolls toward her with purpose in his steps. A part of her wants to know what that purpose is. The other half, however, wishes for this ignorance to continue.

This is bad. She has not felt this shaken since finding out Hawk Moth’s true identity.

Jay stops in front of her and she… does not see a way out of this. Behind her is the refrigerator and in front of her is Jay and there is no way she can sneak past him with him watching her like a hawk.

Wayzz’s support is silent in the way he presses into her through the pocket of the apron. His Miraculi is on her wrist, ready to go whenever.

“That brings me to the next question,” the edge in Jay’s deep baritone keeps sharpening, the air between them is tensed enough to be cut with a rusty spoon, “Why did an up and coming designer find her way here? Perhaps you are looking for new stomping grounds?”

There is a familiar click that she has soon recognized as the safety of a gun being flipped off. It is a useful thing to learn through the past kidnappings.

However, it proves to be no help for her right at this moment. If anything, it only serves to skyrocket her anxiety level.

“Sorry, boss,” she does not know which she hates more, the mocking sarcasm or the gun that suddenly appears, “Foreigners usually do not fare well in Gotham. We, after all, have our own kind of crazies. We do not need another goody-two-shoes with an army of child soldiers to do the pedaling nor do we need any other psychotic artists when we already have more than enough on our hands.”

… Ok?

She kind of wants to laugh but that might earn her a bullet with how close that gun is. Actually, she might just laugh the moment she escapes this.

“I, and I cannot stress this enough, am no newly minted mob boss nor do I have any desire to become one,” she says because honestly, what is this with people thinking of her as some kind of criminal? “I am not raising a child army or using kids to run drugs. And I am not going to touch the psychotic artist thing.”

She looks at Jay, almost daring him to start shit because she has Wayzz and a dozen more kwamii and this time, the truth serum and the memory wiping potion are going to be used.

Jay stares back at her.

The air crackles with tension. Silence is deafening in the quiet patisserie.

The silence is shattered the moment the bell on the front door chimes and the pitter-patters of little feet envelopes the quiet patisserie.

They both turn toward the front door. The gun, thankfully, disappears as Jay shifts to the side enough for her to peer out.

Now, that is a face she has not seen for quite some time. Erin Foster, Helen’s little sister who hadn’t been seen for a week until now, is leaning onto Blaine as the older boy helps her through the front door.

Alarms are ringing in her head as she pushes past Jay to move toward the kids.

“Help,” Erin coughs, clothes rumbled and dirtied with mud and ripped in a few places, “Please.”

Well, shit. So much for nothing happening in three months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to wait for another day to edit and poke holes and all but my other WIPs are piling up.
> 
> That and I would like to finish this fic in this month. I mean, there is an outline on Tumblr but like my plans are always being thrown into chaos so who knows.
> 
> Haste makes waste and all but sometimes you just have to say "Fuck it" and post it anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

Silence envelopes the patisserie, tension as well as something akin to dread brewing as every second passes.

Jay has grabbed the first aid kit while Marinette moves to lock the door. The kids usher Erin into a stool and let Jay looks over her.

“What happened?” she asks the moment she is sure that there are no pursuers on their tail, “Where’s your sister?”

As far as anyone knows, the sisters are inseparable. They usually stick together and it is rare to see one without another. Especially when it is this late at night and in this neighborhood.

The little girl is shaking in her seat as Jay dabs at a cut along her leg with antiseptic yet her eyes keep darting over the door as if she is afraid that something is following her. She accepts the blanket that one of the other kids pulled out from their pile of sleeping bags with trembling hand and covers herself with it.

“Nothing is broken,” Jay says as he slaps a gauge onto the cut, “The cuts will heal nicely if you don’t poke at them and the bruises will fade after a few days but you should probably get a tetanus shot of that on your leg.”

Marinette kneels down beside him, peering up at the girl and subsequently, panics as she sees the glimmering of tears at the corner of her eyes. She dimly notices Jay ushering the other kids toward the kitchen to give them some form of privacy.

Jay, however, would be back. Marinette knows that, is as certain of that as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.

“Sweetheart,” she lowers her voice, letting it fades into a soothing murmur rather than the scream that is desperate to come out, “Can I touch you?”

The girl jolts, shaking her head vehemently.

“It’s fine,” she tries again, careful so no thoughtless touch comes in contact with the trembling kid, “Sweetheart, can you tell me what happened or do you need more time?”

Erin wets her split lips, eyes darting towards the door just behind them before she shudders, closing her eyes and pulls the blanket over her head.

“Ma just left and then there’re some guys,” comes the quiet voice, partly muffled by the blanket yet echoing in the still silence, “Came in and took us away.”

Jay returns now with something akin of restrained rage at the way his eyes flicker to the door, squinting as if daring anyone to interrupt. It is no question whether he has heard Erin’s answer or not. He takes his place next to Marinette, kneeling down rather than standing up.

“It’s okay,” he speaks in a soft rumble, careful to keep his hands to himself, “You’re here now.”

Suddenly, the blanket moves and the face that peers out is one that is streaked with tears. Erin’s mouth twists into a snarl, her eyes brimming with a targetless rage.

“That’s because sis broke me out!” she cries, more hurt than anger, “She could have escaped but some fucker started crying because they fucking tripped! We ran but some bastards tattled on us to save their own skin and sis stashed me into a hole in the wall behind some crates and promised she would come back!”

Something cold pools in her stomach. Dread, perhaps, at the way the girl breaks down in pained sobs.

“She was screaming,” Erin whimpers, bringing the palms of her hands up just to rub furiously at her eyes, choking on her words, “I just upped and ran away like a coward!”

“No, no, you did the right thing coming here,” Jay is quick to reassure her, his tone gentle like he is talking to a wounded animal even when his hands stay on his knees, fisted like he is prepared to punch something, or rather, someone, “You did your best, dear. Now let the adults take care of this.”

* * *

_Erin cannot give them an address. She only remembers that it is an abandoned factory somewhere near Chinatown._

_“Ma took us to Chinatown once,” she whimpers, “I remembered there were signs with strange scripts and words underneath and when I saw those, I knew I was in Chinatown.”_

_“Are you sure?” asks Marinette because signs in Mandarin with English underneath are not exclusive to just Chinatown, “Did you see anything else?”_

_“There’s… a bar,” the girl hiccups, “Red Lotus, I think?”_

_“There’s only one of it in Gotham,” murmurs Jay, “And it’s in Chinatown.”_

_Which does not really narrow anything down. Chinatown is near the docks and there are, according to Jay, dozens of factories there._

_Well, that is fine because when there is a will, there is a way._

_And Marinette does not believe that they are lacking any with Jay’s and hers._

* * *

The other kids crowd around Erin, tentatively offering her the sweets that Marinette left out for them. They murmur quiet comfort, mumbles of encouragements as they coax her into eating and drinking.

Jay is gathering his things, getting his jacket and the backpack that he came in with.

“Should we call the police?” she asks, the phone already in her hand.

It is not like she likes the G.C.P.D or anything. When she says “Everything in Gotham is corrupted”, the G.C.P.D is in that long, long list.

“Call if you want,” Jay spats, his features twist into a snarl like just the mention of the G.C.P.D is distasteful, “They probably won’t bother coming here. Or they would only to arrest those kids.”

Right. Crime Alley and the discrimination.

“That’s fucked up.”

“That’s Gotham, sweetheart,” Jay’s laugh is mocking as he turns toward the back door, “Better get used to it.”

Slipping on her own jacket, she signals for Tikki and Nooroo. The kwamii fly toward her, Nooroo carrying his brooch and she waits for the kwamii to settle into her pocket to chase after Jay.

“We’re going out. Don’t come out until either Jay or I return, okay?” she tells the kid, already halfway to the back door, “If something happens, go hide upstairs.”

It is not that there is anything special upstairs except the Miracle Box, which is now a tin box that looks just like those that store sewing supplies. She does not worry much about the box since there is already a layer of glamour on it and it is not like anyone would steal a used cookie box.

If anything, the kwamii would make sure the kids are safe and stay out of sight. She has faith in them.

She finds Jay straddling a motorcycle, which she does not know where he gets it. But that is not her concern, is it?

“You’re not going alone,” she says and moves to stand in front of the motorcycle, “I’m going with you.”

“Move out of the way,” Jay snarls and no helmet? Guess that is not his motorcycle, “Stay behind and look after the kids. This doesn’t concern you!”

She laughs and moves closer.

Sure, Jay could just run her over and be on his way but Marinette had taken more than her fair share of challenges with terrible odds against her. She is not going to be scared by a few snarls and growls.

“The kids will be safe. And yes, it does concern me.”

* * *

_Jay can ride but next time, they would have to bring a helmet. Or just, you know, not hotwire a motorcycle._

_“Tell me again,” Jay’s voice is a quiet murmur comparing to the howling by their ears, “Why are you here?”_

_“The same reason why you are here!” she raises her voice over the roaring wind as they tear their way down the street, straight toward the docks._

_Gotham’s nights are cold and Marinette takes shelter behind Jay’s bulky body, letting him shield her from the wind. It is one of the advantages of being small: the ability to hide behind someone bigger. And Marinette takes advantage of that because why would she not?_

_“You don’t even know why I’m here!” he accuses, “Didn’t you say you got kidnapped a lot? I could be luring you into a trap or something!”_

_Marinette remembers the way he looked over Erin’s injuries, the way he was so quick to comfort her when she turned her anger and despair onto herself. She remembers the way he seemed to shake with rage, the way he snarled at the mere mention of the G.C.P.D and the unlikeliness of them showing up to look for a missing girl._

_She laughs. Outright breaks down into giggles, her entire body shaking and she is almost afraid that she would fall off._

_“Oh god,” she dimly hears him mutter, “The insanity is contagious.”_

_That just makes her laugh harder. And sure, it is a bit misplaced but the idea is so foreign, so ridiculous that reminds her of the more comical causes of akumanization. She chortles until her laughter fades into quiet trembles._

_“I’m calling you bluff,” she says, “You did pull a gun on me back at the patisserie but you and I both know we have more urgent things to care about rather than my inevitable kidnapping?”_

_“You know what? You’re right. Let’s shelf that for another time,” Jay’s reply seems to nearly lost in the wind at the speed they are going, “How much do you trust me?”_

_“After that stunt back there?” she does not know if Jay can see her eye-roll but she can feel him tensing up, “Not really much but I would like to propose an alliance.”_

_Jay’s body shakes and Marinette clings closer to him. If he has any complaints then he should have been more careful._

_“What a coincidence. I was going to say the same thing.”_

* * *

They disembark in front of an old house at the edge of Chinatown.

“Why are we here?” Marinette squints at the house that whose status looks suspiciously like that of the one Jay put on his address, “I thought we were going to the docks.”

“Eventually,” Jay says and marches toward the door, “You can still turn back, you know. Just say the word and I’ll have you back at the patisserie and there you can wait with the kids.”

Yes. That would be the easy way out. Wait until someone do something. Until somehow Helen turns up miraculously or until their mother figures out that her children were missing and contacted the G.C.P.D.

But who knows how long until then? And if what Helen is caught up in is what Marinette thinks it is then they have little time to lose.

“And here I thought we had something,” Marinette rolls her eyes as she pushes past Jay, turning to face him with hands on her hips, “Time is ticking, Jay. Let’s not waste more moonlight.”

She shifts out of the way to let him take the lead, the door closing with a click as they make their way inside.

“Do you have a mask? And maybe pull your hood up?” Jay asks as he flicks on the light of what seems to be the kitchen, “I’m going to call some people over and I’d rather they not know your identity.”

That sounds… suspicious. And they say Marinette seem shady.

“Sorry, left my mask at home,” she pulls her hood up and watches as Jay grabs a burner tucked somewhere in the cupboard and dials, “You’re not in a gang or something, right?”

Jay makes an affronted noise like the thought is disturbing, which is, well, disturbing. Maybe the kwamii were right and Jay really has some nefarious motives when he approaches her. Or maybe they were wrong is Jay is some kind of modern Robin Hood.

Marinette watches in silence as Jay turns toward the window.

“Gather the men and head for the safe house near Dixon Dock,” Jay speaks, “We’re going hunting tonight.”

She watches as Jay lowers the burner and slides it into his pocket. He pulls a domino out from somewhere along with a duffle bag and sets it on the table.

“I’m not in a gang, boss. I lead a gang,” he says, a blasé confession as he unzips the bag and digs out the content, “And can you, like, turn away? I need to change. I would advise you to wait outside but I’d rather you not interact with anyone in case someone is a bit trigger happy.”

Marinette looks at the red helmet that now lies on the table, the carefully folded jacket that looks very familiar. She looks at the domino on Jay’s face and the black shirt that she always sees him in.

“I hope you have more than just that one shirt,” is what comes out of her mouth, “Because it would not be hygienic like, at all, if you wear that shirt day in and day out.”

“Don’t worry, I have more than one,” Jay’s mouth quirks up like he is biting back a laugh, “Are you going to turn around or are you going to watch me change?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Jay,” Marinette is not blushing seeing as she is not a teenaged girl who has never seen anyone outside of the family naked, “I have seen my fair share of the male body. You’re not that special.”

“So that’s a no?” Jay wiggles his eyebrow and oh god, he is a menace, “Because I can put on a show if you’d like.”

The glare she shoots him apparently does not work as well as she intends it to because Jay guffaws like the bastard that came in gun-blazing while she was tied up in front of Black Mask. Oh right, he is that bastard.

“That’s a yes,” she grumbles and turns on her heels to stare at the wall, “As I said, you aren’t special.”

Wayzz pokes his head out from the pocket to shoot her a grimace and a whole lot of hand waving that Marinette does not need telepathy to know what he is gesturing.

“What now?” he mouths and points to somewhere behind her, “Run?”

Tikki and Nooroo stay in their place but she can feel their touch through the layers of fabric. Tikki is kneading her stomach like a cat would, the time spent with Plagg evidently ended up as her emulating some of his habits while Nooroo seems to cuddle close to her, a comfortable weight in her pocket.

“No,” she mouths back and urges Wayzz back into the pocket, “Stay down.”

Wayzz looks like he wants to argue. He glares at her until he suddenly freezes in the way that she has seen many times. Like he is a toy rather than a being capable of thought.

Wait… She doesn’t hear any clothes rustling.

“So, your stuffed toy can talk?”

Cursing, she turns to come face to face with Jay – Red Hood, whatever he calls himself – and finds him in that awful helmet folding his jacket and pants and putting them into the duffel bag. It is a weird picture but it is not like it can throw her off her games.

Dealing with too many akuma and nothing can faze you.

She could just ignore him and prepare for anything that could result from that one choice. Just lie and prepare for the worst when he chooses to call her out. Or just deflect. Really, she could but…

“He is not a toy,” is her answer, already brushing a hand over Wayzz’s head when the kwamii tenses up, “But yes, he can talk.”

“So what’s your secret?” Red Hood Jay asks as he reaches for the guns, “There is a reason why you are friends with talking tiny animals, isn’t there?”

Look, if Jay has already shown her his cards – and Marinette is not disillusioned to think he does not have more cards under his sleeves – but trust is a two-way street. She, however, can choose to limit how much he knows.

“You are taking this rather calmly,” is her comment, “And who says anything about animals?”

“First of all, this is Gotham, boss. Second of all, I lead a gang and you still haven’t run out screaming so none of us really have any high ground to judge each other here. And lastly, I have seen you with more than just that turtle. I know you have more tiny friends than him.”

Ok. Points for him.

Wayzz glares at both of them before huffing and dives back into the pocket of her apron.

“We should focus on other things,” she says because hell if she wants to explain about how kwamii works, “Like how do we pin down the right warehouse? Because I don’t know how many people you have but searching each and every warehouse isn’t effective.”

“Was going to see if any of my men heard anything suspicious there but if you have easier ways to sniffle out the rats then be my guest.”

“Yes,” is her resolute answer because she has thought about this before and it is why Nooroo is with them, “But everything that happens in this room stays in this room.”

“Please, I know how to keep a secret,” she does not need to see Jay’s eyes to feel the tension, “The answer is, do you?”

She holds his life in her hands as well as he holds hers. If anything, his secret has more value than hers. Sure, he can speak about kwamii and magic and whatever but how can he prove it?

Meanwhile, Marinette has seen the man under the Red Hood mask. She can do a rough sketch should someone ask of her. That information can be sold for a lot in Gotham with how the G.C.P.D, the rogues as well as the Bats are out for Red Hood.

“I know how to keep a secret, Jay,” she says, wetting her lips and fumbles to clip the Butterfly brooch on, “Now, first things first, is there a purple-dressed vigilante in Gotham who is not afflicted to the Bat?”

“There is Spoiler but no one has seen her in a long time and she was dating one of the little birdies the last time I heard of her. And there is also Huntress, who might just fit your description. Why are you asking?”

“Because I’m doing a little mantle hitchhiking,” she says and coaxes Nooroo out, “And this little guy can help us locate Helen.”

* * *

_Once Marinette assumed the role of the Guardian, she deep dived into every old documents about the Miraculi that she could recover._

_The Butterfly and the Peacock were the ones that she focused on. Aside from the Ladybug earrings, she learned more about those two than any other Miraculi._

_Know yourself and your enemies and your battle is won before it can even begin._

_Nooroo is the kwamii of transmission. He is meant to be a force of good. The Butterfly brooch gives the wielder the ability to inspire hope, to sooth weary hearts, to buoy the disheartened and to support those who are determined in completing their respective tasks._

_And in order to do so, Nooroo has to be in tune with the emotions of others. He has to be able to find the source of distress to be able to inspire hope and to reassure that there is a tomorrow._

_The little glow as Nooroo’s magic envelops her is different than Tikki’s. The magic of the earring is hot like pulsing bursts of flames but the magic of the Butterfly brooch is a gentle stream, cool and soothing as it settles around her._

_“Here,” she points down on the grimly map that someone brought to the meeting, “Intel guy said that it’s the work of someone out of town. Bludhaven, perhaps. Heard something about Nightwing?”_

_She leaves out the fact that the intel guy is a moth. A magic moth, sure but no one needs to know about that. Aside from her and Jay but they both are each other’s secret keeper._

_The other men, she trusts as far as she can throw them._

_“You heard her,” Red Hood barks to the men surrounded the table, “Move out.”_

_She turns to catch the little thing that Jay tosses her way when the men are filling out of the room. On a closer look, she can tell it is something like an earphone._

_“It’s linked to mine,” he says and rolling the map up, “You’re coming with, aren’t you?”_

_“Sure,” she laughs and put the earphone in, shifting her hair a bit so that Tikki and Wayzz would be able to hide away from sight, “But you’re giving me a lift.”_

* * *

The men call her Huntress and she does not take it upon herself to correct them. After all, it was her idea to hijack the mantle of one of Gotham’s numerous vigilantes.

“I don’t think you fool anyone with that stunt,” Jay’s voice crackles in her ear, “You’re like a dozen inches shorter and looks like you weigh fifty pounds soaking wet.”

If they are not hiding behind some crates, she would have elbow him. Or at least make her displeasure known by some other way rather than glaring at him and doing the throat cutting movement.

She is not well-versed in the conversion of inches to centimeters or pounds to kilograms but she knows well enough to know when she is being poked fun at.

“Zip it,” she hisses through the comm, “Be quiet and let me work my magic.”

Jay’s muffled laugh sounds in her ears and she rolls her eyes as she sends out the little white moths.

The moths work as her eyes and ears. She sees what they see and she hears what they hear. Every pulse of emotions that they pick up is transmitted back to her.

And Gotham feels… strange through this special scope.

She has always known that Gotham is darker, grimier, and grittier. Well, to be fair, it is overrun with crimes and on the edge of falling apart so perhaps she can cut it some slacks.

Living in Gotham skyrockets her anxiety until she gets used to it and the so-called anxiety became something dormant at the back of her mind. It is almost as if she is living on the edge, anticipating the worst.

But through the magic of the brooch, the feeling amplifies.

It is the hopelessness, the despair that taints Gotham’s air. It is the desperation that plagues the people. It is the fear that drives them toward despicable means to survive.

It is this very place that the worst akuma would come from. Or perhaps, it would give rise to the best champion there has ever been.

“It’s late,” she speaks softly, channeling the longing for a family, a place to return to, “There is someone waiting for you.”

“Don’t let them wait any longer,” she whispers, and thinks of her home, of her family and how she would love to see them again, “Let’s go back.”

The armed force loitering just outside of the warehouse are gone in a few moments. The sounds of feet moving away and away, toward where the rest of Gotham is, rumbles through the quiet night.

They are walking right into the trap Jay set for them. Marinette, however, cannot find it in herself to care when there are more pressing matters on her mind.

“That’s neat,” is Jay’s breathless answer, “How would you feel about an internship?”

Oh no… Marinette has heard this shit. It is always the beginning of recruitment. And the last time she heard it, a recruitment war started.

Jagged had one with Audrey Bourgeois and Gabriel Agreste when he was still a free man. The war has been resumed and is still going strong even if Mr. Agreste is behind bars and Marinette faraway from Paris.

“This,” she gestures to the comm, the warehouse and everything around of them, “-is a one-time thing.”

* * *

_The end is anticlimax and maybe it is for the best._

_Not even a bullet is wasted when they bust the kids out and apprehend the creeps. Marinette, however, turns her eyes away when Jay approached who seems to be the leader and tries to keep the children’s eyes away from whatever is happening behind her._

_“It’s okay,” she tells them, scanning each and every one for injuries, “You’re safe now.”_

_There are a couple of black eyes and split lips. Some even have a scabbed over cut or two somewhere on their body. A few twisted ankles and sprained wrists amongst the older ones. And there are bruises -_

_Her stomach churns when she realizes what Erin meant when she said her sister was screaming._

_“It’ll be fine,” she tries to smile, pushing the nauseous that is rising in her throat down, “We’ll get you home right away.”_

_The worst thing is that she cannot promise that this will not happen again._

* * *

Jay gives her a lift back.

He is strangely quiet throughout the whole ride. Not that Marinette is any more talkative than him.

Her head is swimming with thoughts and perhaps Jay’s is in the same state as hers.

“Tell the kids the good news,” he tells her as they stop at the back door, “Erin will sleep easier if she knows her sister is safe.”

“And you?” she raises an eyebrow as Jay stays on the motorbike, handing him the helmet that he lent her, “Why are you not coming in to tell them?”

“I have work,” is the reply that comes with a careless shrug and in a moment, he seems morose before shaking it away and turns a grin on her, “If Erin lets you, hug her for me, ‘kay?”

He speaks like he has no intention of seeing her or the kids again.

“You can do that yourself,” she answers, shooting a glare his direction, “It doesn’t take much time, you know.”

Jay laughs and he looks so much younger. Briefly, she wonders if the age on his C.V is fake as well.

“Tonight,” he promises, “I will do it tonight.”

Blinking, she looks around for a clock and realizes that no, there is none. The sky, however, is still dark.

“It’s like three in the morning,” Jay sounds almost fond, “So yes, it’s the next day, boss.”

“Guess we’re opening late today,” she mumbles because there is no way they can be up and running at the usual eight a.m, “Maybe ten o’clock? Or eleven at worst?”

“You’re a fucking workaholic. I’m going to remember this the next time you force soup down my throat.”

Oh.

The glare she sends him is unimpressed. Because Jay? Absolutely does not have a higher ground to stand on.

* * *

_Mrs. Foster comes knocking at twelve. Along with her comes Helen, who hides timidly behind her mother as they enter the patisserie._

_“Erin,” Marinette calls, already standing up and moving over to check on Helen, “Someone’s here for you.”_

_The moment the sister come face-to-face with each other, the tears come and they do not go away even as Marinette ushers the trio into the kitchen to give them some privacy._

_“Thank you,” Helen whispers when Marinette kneels down to pat her head, the most touching the girl can stand, “For taking care of my little sister.”_

_The Fosters leave as quietly as they came._

* * *

Jay comes in at two in the afternoon while Marinette is working on a commission from Clara Nightingale.

She looks up when the bell at the door chimes only to find Jay limping inside, bags under his eyes and clothes ruffled as if he has just walked away from a fist fight. And from the discovery from the night before, Marinette does not know what to expect.

“Good afternoon,” is his jovial greeting as Marinette closes her sketchbook, “You look like shit.”

“Right back at you,” she hisses, nearly knocking over the glass of water someone, probably Pollen, put on the cashier in her haste to get up, “Have you eaten?”

“Have you slept?” Jay asks back and she winces because touché, “Come on, boss, take a little break.”

“Sure but only if you’re sitting down with me,” is her reply when they move the scattered papers and art supplies to the kitchen, “Eating alone sucks.”

“And the patisserie?” Jay points at the front door with a raised eyebrow, “Someone has to keep an eye on it.”

Dragging out the bread and the jam, Marinette looks around for a stool but Jay is faster. He grabs the tea on the top of the shelf and brings over a teapot.

“We’re sitting at the cashier,” she announces and hip checks Jay away to take over the heating up the water, “Clean it up for me while I make tea?”

She hears Jay’s soft agreement when Ziggy flies out from above the fridge. At that, out comes the others from their hiding places.

“You two look awfully domestic,” the little goat teases as she settles down on her shoulder, “It’s a bit cute.”

“Oh hush,” she shushes the giggling kwamii, “Let me make tea in peace.”

The high speed kettle turns off with a click and Marinette moves to pour it into the teapot.

“Do you need one of us with you?” Mullo frets, “Just in case he tries something.”

“No but thanks for the thought,” she grabs the teapot and two cups and is ready to hightail it out of the kitchen until she remembers the bread and the jams, “Where is it?”

“Bread and jam?” Daizii asks, tiny paw pointing outside, “Your boy already handled it.”

Nodding in gratitude, she books it out, ears ringing with the giggling from the flock of tiny deities. It is almost as if they draw amusement from the things that happen to her.

“Sorry, did you wait long?”

Jay is toying with the collar of his shirt, cheeks brilliantly red and it is only then Marinette realizes. The cashier is close to the kitchen and soundproofing is not that great.

She hisses out a soft “Fuck!” and turns to the kitchen where she knows the others are peeking out from and gives them a glare.

“So,” Jay starts and she turns only to find something akin to slyness on his flustered face, “I’m your boy now?”

Look, there are other answers. She could have chosen any other answer but no. She totally blames the fatigue for loosening her tongue.

“If you want to be.”

And promptly chokes the very same moment Jay makes a high-pitched noise.

“That’s just bantering, right?” Jay’s voice holds a touch of hysteric as he gestures between them, “I mean, not in that kind of way?”

“Yup,” she cannot be faster in nodding, “Totally platonic.”

Her chest feels… weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rough draft of this is 4k words and the editted draft is 5k words and I want to sleep. Editting is tiring.
> 
> Tikki tagged along as a failsafe in case something happened and they needed the Cure.
> 
> And as for the signs mentioned in the Chinatown part, the Chinatown in my city has shops that have signs in both Chinese and Vietnamese. I can't speak for other places since I haven't been to many.


	4. Chapter 4

There is a saying about kicking the hornets’ nest or something. Jason does not really remember it when the wound on his side is gushing blood.

What he does remember is that the metaphorical strings hurt.

All he can see is the familiar window and only when he has slipped inside and comes face to face with an unfamiliar celling when he collapses onto the bed does he realize that no, this is not one of his safe houses.

Premise one: the room is white with pink accents and Jason knows none of his safe houses have a room like that.

Premise two: the bed is soft. And that is it because sure, Jason makes it his responsibility to look after all of his safe houses seeing as they might serve as his living space but like, he only keeps them partially clean. One of his beds cannot be this wonderfully soft.

Premise three: there are high-pitched whispers that he is sure that he has heard more than once or twice in his time at his part time job. He, also, does not have guests living in any of his safe houses.

Speaking of his part time job…

Oh, fuck…

If he is not wounded and hazy from the blood loss, he would have jolted up and high tail it out through the window.

As it is, his consciousness slips and all he can think is the frown on Marinette’s face when she comes face to face with this mess.

* * *

_He dimly hears someone talking. It is a familiar voice, one that somehow soothes his panic, one that somehow feels of safety._

_There are hands on his skin, warm and careful. It is almost as if whoever is handling him is afraid of hurting him._

_It is a strange yet welcomed feeling._

* * *

Everything hurts.

The room is spinning and his head seems to be splitting apart. His whole body aches in the way that has been so familiar that it is almost nostalgic.

The wrong celling greets him and he freezes, recounting his memories before he passed the fuck out on what seems to be some strange bed rather than one of his own.

“Oh,” sounds the high-pitched voice that grates on his nerves when his head is already pounding, “He’s awake.”

He stares into uncanny purple eyes, holding back a breath at the sight of a tiny palm-sized fox that fucking floats above him and staring down at him with mischief.

“What,” and Jason does not squeak but it is a near thing, “-the fuck?”

The fox giggles, tiny paws press over its snout, little body trembling in the air. It twirls, bushy tail flickering, whooping like there is an ongoing celebration.

“Tikki, he’s awake!” it calls toward the gathering crowd of palm-sized animals, “Where’s the little bug?”

A red being with big blue eyes floats toward him and Jason stiffens as it peers at him, eyes roaming up and down him like it is assessing him. And is that not a frightening thought?

“You seem better,” it hums approvingly before turning to the fox, “She’s downstairs. One of us should fetch her.”

Jason looks on bemusedly as the tiny beings devolve into arguments. They push and wheedle, good-naturedly and it almost remind him of portrayals of siblings that he used to see in books and on films.

“Goodness,” mumbles the red being, tiny antennas twitching and god, at least he is not the only one bemused by the antics, “Age does not equal to maturity, it seems.”

“Excuse me,” he says because politeness does not cost and he has a sneaking suspicion about where he is, “Who are you?”

If his suspicion is right, Marinette would not be happy that he called her friends, or whatever the relationship between her and these little beings is, animals or things. Even if it is in his head.

“Oh, you have only met Nooroo and Wayzz, right?” the being smiles reassuringly, tiny paws flapping animatedly, “I’m Tikki.”

Right. The fox called them “Tikki”. Jason must have been really out of it to miss that.

“And your pronouns?”

Tikki laughs, antennas fluttering up and down. Their paws press over their mouth like they is suppressing laughter and failing terribly at it.

“You humans and your strange ways,” Tikki breathes, paws resting over their heart – if they even have one, “I suppose my pronouns are she, her and hers.”

Jason notes that down because why would he not?

“And, uhm,” and really, he should not be feeling so awkward in the face of these strange beings, “This is Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s place, right?”

“You know you can call her by her name right?” Tikki asks, eyeing him with big blue eyes that seems almost like Marinette’s, “I remembered her telling you to call her by her name. Ms. Dupain-Cheng is a bit too formal when you are both off duty.”

“You said she was downstairs,” is his reply, “I’m assuming that she is still working.”

“Oh, she is,” Tikki nods, frowning almost disapprovingly at the thought, “But not the bakery stuffs.”

He almost asks about it until he remembers the other career that Marinette keeps quiet of. Yet…

“M.D.C doesn’t really meet up face-to-face with her clients,” is his careful probing, “At least, not physically.”

It is well-known that meetings with M.D.C are conducted online and are usually hush-hush. The up and coming designer is tight-lipped about her personal information and not many people knows the real face behind the initials. And if they do, they have already signed a contract with one of the clauses being no leakage of M.D.C’s information including photos of Marinette, or anything of her personal information.

“It’s a surprise client,” Tikki’s features twist into a frown, “It’s really rude to come in without a prior notice and disrupting the business.”

“Should I go down there and help?”

He could. Just stand behind Marinette and glower at the fool who came in unannounced until they left.

But Tikki shakes her head.

“I think you should stay here,” she says, eyeing the bandages and oh, what a surprise! He must have forgotten about his injuries at the sight of all the tiny beings! “Our girl sews but there are differences between sewing clothes together and sewing wounds together.”

“I don’t want to impose-“

Tikki shoots him a glare that seems so identical to Alfred’s that he almost got whiplash. It is a bit nostalgic and bittersweet memory of Alfred’s displeasure when Jason skipped his rest to go on patrol.

“Nope, stay there,” she demands before turning to the bickering beings, “Barkk, go fetch our Guardian.”

The tiny dog that has been keeping themself at the edge of the crowd, away from the antics of the others nods and disappears through the wall.

Jason blinks and lies back.

Huh, they can phase through walls. Ok, sure, so what?

This is Gotham. Weirder things have happened and Jason is basically a zombie.

Yup, just another day.

* * *

_Barkk comes back with a sour face, huffing like they has come across something disgusting._

_“Is there a way to kick someone out?” they sulks, “Or just prevent any future meeting with them?”_

_“Restraint order,” says Daizzi, who Jason learned, from the brief interaction where he introduced himself, that he is a gentle soul who despises the stereotyping that society forces onto animals, especially pigs._

_“Or murder,” Roaar flicks her paws, the feisty tiger that Jason learned to have been against Marinette being involved with him in any way and even going as far as suggesting her to fire him, “Either way works just fine in my opinion.”_

_Tikki stares at the ceiling like she is praying. For patience or strength, Jason does not know._

* * *

What Jason learned in the time he is left alone with the tiny fae-liked beings is that they like heat. Their little bodies run a bit cooler than humans’ and apparently, they like cuddling next to a warmer body.

“Your body runs really hot,” Mullo mumbles as he makes himself a place somewhere near Jason’s neck, burying into the heat of his body “It’s nice.”

So Jason lies there, being covered by tiny beings because no, he cannot sit up because he is wounded, according to Tikki and no, he does not have the heart to push them off. Doing so would be like kicking a puppy.

Jason has lines he does not cross, contrary to what others think.

He does not mind being used as a pillow or a personal heater. And they are not heavy enough to pose much of a problem. It is almost nice, to be of used to someone.

The door opens quietly and Jason tenses, everything in him screaming for him to be up and ready for an attack. The only thing that holds him back is the sight of a dozen tiny beings lying on him, either sleeping or just cuddling into his heat.

“Huh, didn’t think I’d see something like this,” Marinette’s amused voice sooths his frayed nerves and he cranes his neck to see her closing the door, a familiar turtle on her shoulder, “How are you feeling, Jay?”

“Don’t call me that,” is on his tongue before he remembers that Marinette knows him as Jay and not as Jason. After all, that is the name he put on the C.V and he has never corrected her even after his covers were blown.

Jason Todd is, after all, dead on papers. And while he can always set up a fake I.D with the same name, the less ties between that name and him, the better. And no, it is not out of consideration for any of the Bats and birds.

It is easier, to wear a dead person’s face. He can even claim Mandela Syndrome if someone asks him whether he is Jason Todd. It would complicate things if the name on paper is the same as Jason Todd.

And Marinette, while she is a part of his life, is still a civilian. One who has immense powers in her hands yet does not make use of it.

What he is doing is surveillance. It is keeping an eye on a possible threat or a potential ally. It is also earning a bit clean money in case his other career taking a deep dive.

And if he finds her presence to be enjoyable then that is just a side bonus.

Instead of correct her, he glances at the bandages, careful not to jostle the tiny beings. They are the works of a layman, quite different from Alfred’s steady hands and grim focus. But they would do.

“You had a bullet inside you,” Marinette comes closer, and only when she seats herself on the edge of the bed does Jason sees the purple being on the top of her head, “Did you know that?”

Look, Jason trusts her to a certain degree but…

“Please tell me you got it out,” he does not plead but it is a near thing because digging bullets out of himself is troublesome, especially when his entire body hurts and all he wants is to sleep.

“It’s in the trash,” Marinette says like it is something normal and seeing as this is Gotham, maybe it is? Jason’s life is not the one of the average civilian so he has no idea, “Tikki helped me with patching you up.”

He really should not ask. There are things that should be left unknown but curiosity is a damnable thing.

“Please tell me she did not phase through me to get it out.”

The thought leaves a weird feeling. It is like an invasion and it is gross and he feels like puking at the mere thought.

Figures. Blood and gore are the norm but not the thought of something phasing through his body turns his stomach.

Tikki, curling on his chest, makes an affronted noise and glares at him when she leaves him for Marinette, settling on her head next to the purple being. Jason distantly remembers Marinette calling them Nooroo.

“I got it out with tweezers,” is Marinette’s deadpanned reply as she reaches up to pat Tikki, “Don’t worry, Tikki would never be so rude.”

That is good to know. Just one more question…

“What are you going to do?” he asks, gesturing of whatever this thing is.

Jason does not have much friends. His allies are more likely than not those who would turn on him should the wind changes. There are not so many people he can trust.

And Marinette is, somehow, on that meager list. And it is weird because he started out going undercover because of all the rumors. He started out with the aim to find out any incriminating things she has done only to find out she just runs a bakery, designing on the side and taking care of the kids who wander in for food, giving a roof over their head to spend the night and the herd of tiny beings that give away powers.

He trusts her enough with his secret and she trusts him with hers but how far does that trust stretch?

Nooroo floats down from her head and lands in her opened palm. Their large dark eyes stare at Jason and it is unnerving to be studied by someone so small.

“I’m thinking of taking care of you,” Marinette hums, brushing a finger over the little swirl on Nooroo’s head, “You are obviously hurt and I don’t like the thought of you being alone in this state.”

That’s… nice. Except…

“I can take care of myself,” he argues, almost sitting up to face her only to freeze and huff when the tiny balls of fluff whine when he dislodges them with the sudden movement, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You shouldn’t have to is what I’m saying. Just, let me help.”

She looks at him in the eyes and says those words. Her voice is laced with a sincerity that is certainly strange in this damned city.

And Jason, for some reasons, stays.

* * *

_Life goes on, round and round._

_Jason gets a room that used to be a storage of some sort until Marinette cleared it out. It is not what he had expected._

_There is a small living room and a couch but Marinette leads him to another room with a pile of boxes._

_“You need a place to sleep,” is Marinette’s reason when he helps her with the boxes, “Besides, I don’t think you would like sharing a room.”_

_He is about to say that he does not mind because he had shared living spaces with worse people but one look at Marinette’s flustered face is enough to warm his cheeks._

_Oh…_

* * *

The thing about emotions is that they are unpredictable.

They lurk and lurk and wait and wait until you are unprepared and they spring right into your fucking face. You can just lie awake at three in the morning and suddenly realize that fuck, you are in love with your housemate. Or you are just slipping into the window of your borrowed room after a night of patrol and realize that your feelings for your housemate are not as platonic as you think they are.

And Jason freezes, the window still open and the cold air is pouring in but he cannot bring himself to care about that when he is busy untangling what he feels about Marinette. His head is still spinning with the realization when he collapses onto the bed.

Ok, Marinette is a nice girl. The exact kind that his mother would want him to bring home, if she is still alive.

Does Jason like her? Yes, he does.

And it would be fine if those are just platonic feelings. Except Jason feels clammy and nervous when she smiles but at the same time his heart would be so calm and light.

Sometimes, he would think about making her a meal and watching her eat. Marinette has an appreciation for food and Jason has no idea how to react to that because he just wants to cook her a nice meal and watch as she lights up like Christmas lights. It is a cute image and he has only seen it once or twice when Marinette went out and came back late and he had to make dinner. Except, it keeps haunting him and he finds himself not minding much and even looking forward to any chance to cook for her.

The life they lead can be dull with just working around the patisserie, kneading flour and baking bread. But it is the same life that gives them the chance to laugh in the kitchen, some soft tune pouring out from the laptop that Marinette leaves on the cashier while they banter back and forth.

They have their other life with Jason as Red Hood and Marinette as M.D.C but behind these walls, they are just Marinette and Jay.

And Jason loves and hates that.

He loves it because this warmth is comforting, like the feeling of curling up in his mother’s embrace on the rainy days when his father was nowhere to be found. It is soft, it is light and it is something that he did not know he wanted until it is right in his laps.

And he hates it because there is this tiny seed of doubt that keeps whispering that everything about this is a façade. That Marinette only knows him as Jay and not the street rat that lied and stole and did the things he did for a quick buck. She does not know him as the Robin that died, the useless successor to the original.

And he is afraid.

For everything that is good and holy, he knows almost everything about Marinette and she, however, does not even know his real name. All the spite and anger that carried him through every obstacle life threw at him cannot help him with this.

This is not something he can just punch away or shoot at. This is delicate. One wrong move and everything would fall down.

There are many things he does not know. Like what to do next, how to proceed. He, however, knows that his life is a mess.

That Marinette deserves more than what he can offer.

* * *

_Jason does not know but Marinette lies in bed and has the same realization. That the feelings for her housemate-slash-employee are more than just platonic and what she thought of as banters were actually them flirting with each other._

_But Jay gave her a fake address once. Who is to say that his name is not fake? Or that his age is even real?_

_“Do not hesitate,” she remembers Kagami’s words years ago, “Sometimes, the best defense is offense and following your heart is better than listening to your head.”_

_Sometimes, she envies Kagami, for being able to disregard the whispers, the doubts and just forges ahead to get what she wants._

_“It will be alright,” Tikki murmurs by her ear, soft and comforting as she sits at her desk and agonizes over this discovery, “Whatever you choose, we will support you.”_

* * *

That certain realization keeps Jason awake at night and when his hand brushes against Marinette’s at breakfast, he jolts, nearly spilling the whole plate on the table.

“You ok there?” Marinette asks him, all concern and worry on her face, “Do you need a day off? Or did you tear off your stitches again?”

Apparently, Jason’s kink is being loved or something because his cheeks just heat up with the speed that might just rival that of a speedster. His heart does something like a flip that even Grayson would be jealous of.

“No, I’m fine,” he murmurs and digs in, carefully avoiding Marinette’s gaze because if he even glances at those big blue eyes, he might just spill this secret and he does not want to ruin this thing that they have.

He almost sighs in relief when he hears the chair moving, certain that Marinette just sat down for breakfast. That is until he jerks backward at the sudden sight of a hand in front of him.

“Sorry,” Marinette says, leaning over the table, hand still hovering in the air, “Just, want to take your temperature. Can I?”

Jason does not squeak. He does not.

“Oh, look at the time! I’m going to man the counter!”

Jason does not run. This is just a tactical retreat.

He tries not to take notice of the quiet giggling. The walls have ears and in this place, that might just be literal.

* * *

_Marinette stares at Jay’s half eaten plate, at her own and just sinks back into her seat._

_“I don’t know what’s happening,” she tells Tikki when she is covering the plate to store it in the refrigerator, “Did I overstep his boundaries?”_

_Tikki giggles and Nooroo floats down from above the refrigerator and settles on her other shoulder. The little butterfly seems almost amused._

_“Guardian, remember the thing you agonized over last night?” asks Nooroo, tiny wings flapping faintly behind him, “Well, I’m here to tell you that it is reciprocated.”_

_Marinette nearly takes off her thumb with the force she closes the refrigerator’s door._

* * *

Jason spends the entire week jumpy and blushing at the mere sight of Marinette.

Between that and working at the patisserie and working that damnable case that stretches into Bludhaven, he does not have much time to rest.

“You look like shit,” Blaine tells him when Jason is looking over math homework for him, “Trouble in paradise?”

“What paradise?” Jason does not grunt because he, at least, does not communicate in monosyllabic like a certain someone, “The upcoming finals that is going to fuck me over?”

“Your relationship with Marinette?” the little shit continues like nothing happened, “Did she banish you to the couch?”

What the hell with people thinking that they are involved in a romantic relationship? No offense to Marinette because she is fine as fuck. But why are people looking at him and thinking that they would make a great couple is beyond Jason.

“You did this wrong,” he says and turns the conversation around to the equations, “Here, give me something to write and I’ll show you how to do it.”

Deflection is always a great strategy to avoid certain topics.

“I know what you are doing, Jay,” Blaine mutters but still hands him a paper he snatches from somewhere, “But sure, you can’t run from your problems forever.”

Theoretically, Jason knows but…

“And you can’t avoid doing your homework forever, kid. You’ll have to turn it in sooner or later.”

Time. He needs time to think and plan his next move.

* * *

_Jason is a terrible liar._

_He has nothing to offer Marinette, no money, no fame, nothing to his name. And her future is so, so bright._

_He cannot afford to pull her down. And that is that he tells himself._

_Yet he still wishes for these easy days to continue. For these soft moments when they laugh without a care in the world, cooking, cleaning and bantering back and forth to never end._

* * *

Marinette’s hands are steady as she redoes the stitches. Time and time again and her hands do not shake as much as they did the first time.

“My name is Jason,” she hears and her hands stop, “Jason Todd. That’s my real name. Not Jay Peters.”

Jay – or Jason – is picking at the blanket, eyes carefully avert. His shoulders are hunched, like he is preparing for some unseen attacks. There is just the barest hint of a tremble in his body as if he is afraid.

“Ok,” she says and resumes her stitching, “Nice to meet you, Jason.”

They sit in silence, Jason shaking and Marinette carefully keeping her breathing under control until she finishes, eyes roaming over the nicely healing wound.

And Jason just threw her some bread crumbles to tackle this secret that she has been agonizing over.

“Since we are sharing our secrets,” she starts, untangles Jason’s grip on the blanket and threads their fingers together, gathering all the courage that she has, “My feelings for you aren’t platonic.”

She can hear his breath hitch, feel him stiffen, like he is trying to close himself off.

“What you’re feeling, that’s between you and Jay,” is the quiet answer and at the corner of her eye, she can see the kwamii evacuating the room, giving them much needed privacy, “Jay isn’t me. He doesn’t exist. Everything you know about Jay is a lie.”

But are they really, she wonders.

She remembers the careful way he treats the children, poking at them for fun sometimes but never overstepping boundaries, never being outright cruel like some of those before him. He looks at them in the eyes, thanks them when he asks of them something and apologizes when he makes them upset.

She thinks back on the moments when he crouched down to explain some things to the younger kids. She remembers hearing Red Hood buying out some warehouses and turning them into unofficial shelters for those who have no roof on their head. She definitely remembers delivering food to those warehouses and Red Hood promising that the money he paid her was clean.

She replays the night where she heard the sound of someone screaming and nearly rolled off her bed only to realize that there was no physical danger but only the pained whimper through Jason’s door. She replays the times where they sat together in the living room, her sketching and him nursing a warm drink, the trembles quietly leaving his body. She thinks of the nights they spent together, basking in each other presence as she draws and he reads.

She remembers being fascinated by the way he frowns when he is at the climax of a story. The way his eyebrows pinch together, eyes squinting as they roam across the page. And she was there the first time she taught him how to knead bread, all focus and serious and it was absolutely adorable. And she was there when he sneezed when they cleaned the living room, tickled by some dust, and she laughed so much because it was almost like a kitten’s sneeze.

“There are things that cannot be faked,” she says and the hand in hers shakes, “I saw them, Jason, and it is because of them that I fell for you.”

“I have nothing to my name,” is his hoarse answer and Jason meets her with teary eyes, the beginning of a sob in his voice, “I can’t offer you anything.”

“I don’t want anything from you, Jason,” reaching up, she wipes those tears away, wishing that she has a handkerchief on hand, “Your love is a gift that I would be honored to receive.”

“What if it won’t work out?” is the question that she has been asking herself since before Jason vocalizes those worries.

What if it ends badly and everything crashes and burns down? What if they hurt each other when they are at their worst? What if love is not enough to overcome their differences? What if they cannot come to a compromise?

“It’s better to try and fail rather than not trying,” she says, reciting the words she heard from Kagami, “I’m willing to try but are you?”

Jason’s laugh is watery. His tears are hot against her knuckles when he brings their joint hand up to wipe at his tears.

“Live without regrets, huh? Sure, why not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok but like kwamiis are like presentations of concepts so basically, they are just concepts given shapes. So they just chose whichever gender they want.
> 
> Listen but Nooroo's thing is about emotions and shits but like, that means that he can tell how someone feels about someone else? So technically, he can feel people crushing on each other and things like that.
> 
> Also, I read somewhere that if there is one person and their pronouns are they/them/their then the verbs are supposed to be singular?
> 
> Anyway, I think that's it for the note? There might be more but I honestly can't remember.

**Author's Note:**

> For [an idea I had.](https://bunathebunny.tumblr.com/post/628343859265568768/marinette-after-defeating-hawkmoth-and-just)
> 
> I can't believe this day has come! This might just be one of my best works and its birth was completely accidental? I didn't think I'd write this but thanks to [@justafanwarrior](https://justafanwarrior.tumblr.com/), the first chapter was written and I just kept writing.
> 
> Anyway, there might be a side story for the things I want to write but can't cramp in this. But first, I need to return to my other fics.


End file.
